"stubbled" poems - Hello Poetry

"stubbled" poems

Who are these farmers, And who, these fertile fields, Verdant under native grass, That stand un-plowed, That shake beneath the plow, That lie now fallow, That bear the planted seed, That wear the heavy grain, That await the Harvest pain? And who, these Harvesters, And who, these close-shorn fields, Desolate in short-cut stubble, That stand, stiff in silence, That wear the heavy tracks, That have endured the harvest, That yielded up their dead, That bristle through the falling snow, That whistle wind-song low? And who, these merry Farmers, And who these stubbled fields, Glistening beneath the melting snow, That warm beneath the glowing sun, That host the migrants of the sky, That tremble the biting plow, That accept the falling seed, That wait beneath the welcome rains, That cycle through the seasons once again?

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Jul 30, 2015

Jul 30, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC

These Farmers; These Fields

Who are these farmers, And who, these fertile fields, Verdant under native grass, That stand un-plowed, That shake beneath the plow, That lie now fallow, That bear the planted seed, That wear the heavy grain, That await the Harvest pain? And who, these Harvesters, And who, these close-shorn fields, Desolate in short-cut stubble, That stand, stiff in silence, That wear the heavy tracks, That have endured the harvest, That yielded up their dead, That bristle through the falling snow, That whistle wind-song low? And who, these merry Farmers, And who these stubbled fields, Glistening beneath the melting snow, That warm beneath the glowing sun, That host the migrants of the sky, That tremble the biting plow, That accept the falling seed, That wait beneath the welcome rains, That cycle through the seasons once again?

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Begging you, Sterling Mentor of the Card Patient and Calm are your Methods in-check May I take this Learner to Living afar Bespoke my Efforts and Services are met For if I noticed this Lack-of-Command Married to sane Verbs I try to absorb Even out of Bounty; Trust be at Hand To remember such Stubbled Skills I bore This is an Artist-on-High. That which speaks With Curried Words much tempting to forget At expense of Duty is no longer meek And my Salt's Wager now easy to forget. Bear me Calm. I can adopt to re-learn The Blue Eagle's shriek which can eat the Worm.

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Mar 8, 2013

Mar 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC

xavier-paolo-josh-mandreza

SONNET TRIBUTE: MARYCRIS MEDINA

Begging you, Sterling Mentor of the Card Patient and Calm are your Methods in-check May I take this Learner to Living afar Bespoke my Efforts and Services are met For if I noticed this Lack-of-Command Married to sane Verbs I try to absorb Even out of Bounty; Trust be at Hand To remember such Stubbled Skills I bore This is an Artist-on-High. That which speaks With Curried Words much tempting to forget At expense of Duty is no longer meek And my Salt's Wager now easy to forget. Bear me Calm. I can adopt to re-learn The Blue Eagle's shriek which can eat the Worm.

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Cracked vinyl bus seats Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life They congregate for a common purpose, but The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment, And Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus? Smooth polished church pews Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend They congregate for a common purpose, but Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel And Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?

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Jul 2, 2013

Jul 2, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC

Anything But Holy

Cracked vinyl bus seats Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life They congregate for a common purpose, but The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment, And Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus? Smooth polished church pews Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend They congregate for a common purpose, but Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel And Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?

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I challenged him burly ******* captain stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper standing there in muggy dusk arms akimbo, mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado all he had to do was speaketh the words “need those maps, head out at 2230 hours” and that was a death sentence which was commuted to life if four decades since has been life there are not words for the black of moonless jungle except nothingness and paralytic fear and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness I crawled, crouched and crept along sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch the silence, the silence, the silence became my splintered cross to carry to my place of crucifixion at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and fearful eyes silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness black soundlessness punctuated by shallow precious breaths and imagined slant-eyed demons waiting behind each berm to turn the timeless night into timelessness of more black should I chamber a round? and follow its solitary sound into the silent holy night and shatter my own fragile fright? would that end this knowing without knowing? and answer the question, “is this fear worse than the answer?” since questions have answers but answers have nothing the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part in the silence, the silence, the silence of the black canopied jungle in Tay Ninh Province in 1967 where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live in silent, black wordlessness sentenced to live to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light did the captain become a human? And was I really allowed to live?

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Oct 2, 2012

Oct 2, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC

Tay Ninh Province, 1967

I challenged him burly ******* captain stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper standing there in muggy dusk arms akimbo, mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado all he had to do was speaketh the words “need those maps, head out at 2230 hours” and that was a death sentence which was commuted to life if four decades since has been life there are not words for the black of moonless jungle except nothingness and paralytic fear and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness I crawled, crouched and crept along sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch the silence, the silence, the silence became my splintered cross to carry to my place of crucifixion at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and fearful eyes silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness black soundlessness punctuated by shallow precious breaths and imagined slant-eyed demons waiting behind each berm to turn the timeless night into timelessness of more black should I chamber a round? and follow its solitary sound into the silent holy night and shatter my own fragile fright? would that end this knowing without knowing? and answer the question, “is this fear worse than the answer?” since questions have answers but answers have nothing the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part in the silence, the silence, the silence of the black canopied jungle in Tay Ninh Province in 1967 where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live in silent, black wordlessness sentenced to live to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light did the captain become a human? And was I really allowed to live?

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This poem comes from a dream. Sun—as February ordains it roseate—early twisted inordinate—in gray blanket Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles the cuff of his woolen cap An old hand rubs stubbled cheek Snow flickers and falls again in a dazzle As he groans and stirs— sparrows sing As he struggles to sit— sparrows sing As he exhales into the chill he considers the lilies of the field Their luminous curling petals rise steam or hope? or just white smoke wandering from the tiny fire He sits a while to listen to sparrows bickering in the bushes then bursting into song They have their audience Across in a court of broken glass and toppled stones a room— still partially intact Kindling gathered Marta melts snow for tea peeling potatoes in her lap Stops to blow on hands Marta’s heart—decent, visceral like her hair—bun, kerchief like her words—few in the failing like the wounds of her smile And Mikhail—harnessed to the sounds of service Orderly rhythm in ruin hush hush hush of a broom stroking cobbles Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags old warrior now, restorer of places to live Stops, removes his cap squinting sunlight into the channels of his face Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him “You shouldn’t.” Tears interrupt reaching for the broom “You shouldn’t do this for me.” “No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing— a little thing I do.”

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Nov 5, 2017

Nov 5, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Sparrows Falling

This poem comes from a dream. Sun—as February ordains it roseate—early twisted inordinate—in gray blanket Snow has sifted to the pockets, wrinkles the cuff of his woolen cap An old hand rubs stubbled cheek Snow flickers and falls again in a dazzle As he groans and stirs— sparrows sing As he struggles to sit— sparrows sing As he exhales into the chill he considers the lilies of the field Their luminous curling petals rise steam or hope? or just white smoke wandering from the tiny fire He sits a while to listen to sparrows bickering in the bushes then bursting into song They have their audience Across in a court of broken glass and toppled stones a room— still partially intact Kindling gathered Marta melts snow for tea peeling potatoes in her lap Stops to blow on hands Marta’s heart—decent, visceral like her hair—bun, kerchief like her words—few in the failing like the wounds of her smile And Mikhail—harnessed to the sounds of service Orderly rhythm in ruin hush hush hush of a broom stroking cobbles Mikhail—his hands wrapped in rags old warrior now, restorer of places to live Stops, removes his cap squinting sunlight into the channels of his face Then turns toward unsteady shuffling behind him “You shouldn’t.” Tears interrupt reaching for the broom “You shouldn’t do this for me.” “No, no, Holy Father. It is little thing— a little thing I do.”

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artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights... ~~~ to, for & from SJR ~ this force, burnt soul kindling, rampant urges that bow a man's spine write write rite right consumption of the soul straighten up, flex, flex to the curvature of the Earths invitation to write write rite right cast my eyes to the mountains, from whence will come my help? street prowler, heart growler, Art Deco lampposts, the mountain range of east seventy second street, begs the baggers question, each a post begging each other, from whence will come my inspiration? lick the stubbled sidewalks, fall down living in their caverned cracks, light needed needy soft heated orange and green pizza neons say here, if you see upon what be, your homelands colors of veracity from candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights. all queries so queer, so cheerfully answered in the ***** air, in warped woof of city write lights he goes home in the dark of a green moon, and its delighting inviting moonlight, he composes what is his eyes have decomposed into a single memory, and is satisfied unto sleep praising the eyes, light lidded, but eager closing, that had wisdom given to observe light various by which to write write rite right 4/16/16 10:30am nyc

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Apr 16, 2016

Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC

artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights...

artist working by candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights... ~~~ to, for & from SJR ~ this force, burnt soul kindling, rampant urges that bow a man's spine write write rite right consumption of the soul straighten up, flex, flex to the curvature of the Earths invitation to write write rite right cast my eyes to the mountains, from whence will come my help? street prowler, heart growler, Art Deco lampposts, the mountain range of east seventy second street, begs the baggers question, each a post begging each other, from whence will come my inspiration? lick the stubbled sidewalks, fall down living in their caverned cracks, light needed needy soft heated orange and green pizza neons say here, if you see upon what be, your homelands colors of veracity from candle light, neon lights, coffee shop lights. all queries so queer, so cheerfully answered in the ***** air, in warped woof of city write lights he goes home in the dark of a green moon, and its delighting inviting moonlight, he composes what is his eyes have decomposed into a single memory, and is satisfied unto sleep praising the eyes, light lidded, but eager closing, that had wisdom given to observe light various by which to write write rite right 4/16/16 10:30am nyc

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A chill wind prepares the land for sleep snow-weighted clouds brush golden-stubbled wheat fields and bare clotted earth laid out in heirloom patchwork stitched from lean and bountiful years. Poplar trees arranged in perfectly contoured lines resist enforced conformity their flaming arms reach for each other tangle and entwine. Here, good souls touch down like wind-blown seeds from distant lands of sunlit love fading purple twilight and midnight blackness gently settling in fertile, protected hollows where possibilities rest and winter-over awaiting the time to wake and begin anew.

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Oct 26, 2015

Oct 26, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC

A chill wind prepares the land for sleep snow-weighted clouds brush golden-stubbled wheat fields and bare clotted earth laid out in heirloom patchwork stitched from lean and bountiful years. Poplar trees arranged in perfectly contoured lines resist enforced conformity their flaming arms reach for each other tangle and entwine. Here, good souls touch down like wind-blown seeds from distant lands of sunlit love fading purple twilight and midnight blackness gently settling in fertile, protected hollows where possibilities rest and winter-over awaiting the time to wake and begin anew.

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I counted the clock as I watched the small hand slowly tick by I stared off into space as I watched the weather change from sunny to Grey- blurring my vision as my mind drifted away... Something in the air told me to be still- listen & wait but if I'd of known on this day you'd do the unthinkable so intangibly- I well I don't know what I'd of done.... I haven't eaten since you left I hardly slept since I found you gone... Hard to think as I sit at my dinning table watching out my bay window as children laugh & play. I heard a dog bark and watched a girl playing with her hula-hoop I sit as tears run down my face thinking are you eating are you safe? Why now would you think to leave when everything you wanted is right in front of you? Is that person you ran to worth the pain your causing me? What can you be thinking ? As I sit hear with my elbows on this table, head bent low & my hands in my hair. I hear a knock & my heart skips a beat, butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach... That lil girl with her hula-hoop tapped my window and smiles (I thought it was you) I smile right back but all I see is you- in my mind I see you with your tiny hands, your wrapped in blankets, leaves of many colors fall down from above as we sat in Elizabeth Park me reading Winnie The Pooh to you. You at about 2- running with your very first kite saying looky momma look "it fly'ing"... As you ran you tripped stubbled & fell sadly your kite flew away... I chases it but I couldn't reach it in time.... You look up with tears & it breaks my heart I didn't catch your kite so I cry too and you say to me momma it OK. I see in my mind you at 4 laughing with your sister - you both hold hand twirling round & round in circles until you fall down giggling all the while. I wonder where is that smile of yours now? Where's the laughter & feelings you had way back then? My tears are overflow- spilling on this dinning table... I look up and watch the tiny red hand on the clock tick, tick, tick on by, it's the only sound in my house. Your sisters outside playing with their friends as I sit watching out the window& all I see is the many blended children whom now look all like you- running, laughing, playing... Being free to be them selves & all I can do is long to have you home for once. No picture is gonna help because you've left me watching, waiting once more, I been here all this time doing what I seem to continuously do which is Watch As Time Flys By! Always Me Ayeshah

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May 24, 2010

May 24, 2010 at 9:55 AM UTC

Watch Time Flys By!

I counted the clock as I watched the small hand slowly tick by I stared off into space as I watched the weather change from sunny to Grey- blurring my vision as my mind drifted away... Something in the air told me to be still- listen & wait but if I'd of known on this day you'd do the unthinkable so intangibly- I well I don't know what I'd of done.... I haven't eaten since you left I hardly slept since I found you gone... Hard to think as I sit at my dinning table watching out my bay window as children laugh & play. I heard a dog bark and watched a girl playing with her hula-hoop I sit as tears run down my face thinking are you eating are you safe? Why now would you think to leave when everything you wanted is right in front of you? Is that person you ran to worth the pain your causing me? What can you be thinking ? As I sit hear with my elbows on this table, head bent low & my hands in my hair. I hear a knock & my heart skips a beat, butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach... That lil girl with her hula-hoop tapped my window and smiles (I thought it was you) I smile right back but all I see is you- in my mind I see you with your tiny hands, your wrapped in blankets, leaves of many colors fall down from above as we sat in Elizabeth Park me reading Winnie The Pooh to you. You at about 2- running with your very first kite saying looky momma look "it fly'ing"... As you ran you tripped stubbled & fell sadly your kite flew away... I chases it but I couldn't reach it in time.... You look up with tears & it breaks my heart I didn't catch your kite so I cry too and you say to me momma it OK. I see in my mind you at 4 laughing with your sister - you both hold hand twirling round & round in circles until you fall down giggling all the while. I wonder where is that smile of yours now? Where's the laughter & feelings you had way back then? My tears are overflow- spilling on this dinning table... I look up and watch the tiny red hand on the clock tick, tick, tick on by, it's the only sound in my house. Your sisters outside playing with their friends as I sit watching out the window& all I see is the many blended children whom now look all like you- running, laughing, playing... Being free to be them selves & all I can do is long to have you home for once. No picture is gonna help because you've left me watching, waiting once more, I been here all this time doing what I seem to continuously do which is Watch As Time Flys By! Always Me Ayeshah

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Your mind is an archivist's wet dream, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought... it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline seems to speak volumes, and I wonder if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them as braille. I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth more intimately-- please whisper prose on my collarbones... and I don't believe in love at first sight, but maybe, love at first poem.

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Nov 15, 2014

Nov 15, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC

darling-iridescence

Your mind is an archivist's wet dream, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought... it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline seems to speak volumes, and I wonder if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them as braille. I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth more intimately-- please whisper prose on my collarbones... and I don't believe in love at first sight, but maybe, love at first poem.

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Oh joy to me, I have awakened It seems the night has left my skin dry, And my beautiful dreams lost to The methadone sky My chin stubbled, lips cracked I try to remember, Reach for my dream It disappears into nothingness The mangled battlefields of mine How I need to remember That methadone sky Oh joy to me, She has awakened It seems the night has left her skin moist, And her beautiful dreams lost to The methadone sky Her cheeks cut, lips scabbed I try to make her, Reach for our dreams They disappear into nothingness The mangled battlefields of time Oh how she needs to remember That methadone sky

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Jun 1, 2015

Jun 1, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC

finley-pietersen

The Methadone Sky

Oh joy to me, I have awakened It seems the night has left my skin dry, And my beautiful dreams lost to The methadone sky My chin stubbled, lips cracked I try to remember, Reach for my dream It disappears into nothingness The mangled battlefields of mine How I need to remember That methadone sky Oh joy to me, She has awakened It seems the night has left her skin moist, And her beautiful dreams lost to The methadone sky Her cheeks cut, lips scabbed I try to make her, Reach for our dreams They disappear into nothingness The mangled battlefields of time Oh how she needs to remember That methadone sky

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dagger stilettos sever the head off a clove cigarette fallen from blushing plump lips in a sharp, slightly stubbled face so you hate him because that's what we, humans, do golden ankles shine from under a cloud of black a flash of lightning blue in her gaze intensity that frightens you so you hate her because that's what we, humans, do we spout that God is love God is good and perfect and outside of time not human yet somehow the Creator of countless suns and sons who shaped them in the womb hates what he made my bloodied, beautiful God who made water into sweet red wine who let ****** rub oil on his head who creates, forgives, loves does not despise anyone humans do that how convenient to somehow believe it true that God hates the same people as you

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May 20, 2014

May 20, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC

God doesn't hate anyone

dagger stilettos sever the head off a clove cigarette fallen from blushing plump lips in a sharp, slightly stubbled face so you hate him because that's what we, humans, do golden ankles shine from under a cloud of black a flash of lightning blue in her gaze intensity that frightens you so you hate her because that's what we, humans, do we spout that God is love God is good and perfect and outside of time not human yet somehow the Creator of countless suns and sons who shaped them in the womb hates what he made my bloodied, beautiful God who made water into sweet red wine who let ****** rub oil on his head who creates, forgives, loves does not despise anyone humans do that how convenient to somehow believe it true that God hates the same people as you

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Silken square fills with air, So warm, so very warm... Hotter, higher... Pumping in, and in, In... more air, please, more... Falling…, falling... **** Really falling!! Strong arms drag me to center. Hotter, higher, further and farther, and Oh! Oh!! Tighter and higher than it can go... and Implode! Explode!!...2...3... As the colored patches swirl around me, strong arms Pull me up and over (breathing and uh...wheezing!) Landing sideways, mixed together, to sleep. Huddle of humans, one or two? Arms are somewhere, leg over leg, You hold me, I pass out. Best is ... Opening eyes, Nose smashed in stubbled cheek, Seeing my son's chin. Thank You for Now, Thank God forEver.

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Jun 11, 2014

Jun 11, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC

Silken square fills with air, So warm, so very warm... Hotter, higher... Pumping in, and in, In... more air, please, more... Falling…, falling... **** Really falling!! Strong arms drag me to center. Hotter, higher, further and farther, and Oh! Oh!! Tighter and higher than it can go... and Implode! Explode!!...2...3... As the colored patches swirl around me, strong arms Pull me up and over (breathing and uh...wheezing!) Landing sideways, mixed together, to sleep. Huddle of humans, one or two? Arms are somewhere, leg over leg, You hold me, I pass out. Best is ... Opening eyes, Nose smashed in stubbled cheek, Seeing my son's chin. Thank You for Now, Thank God forEver.

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between poems, an old curmudgeon, am me-he, thorny gray stubbled face available for knife sharpening and tongue lashing cranky and cantankerous, bad tempered, ill mannered, me-he, until they slip me a paper aspirin place before me a clean sheet Presto Chango, the ole man displaced, (the boy who remembers to forget,) in his heart~place, installed, though the briar and the thorn never from his visage depart, just briefly, Red Sea parted kiss me surprised, stumbling about in the wee of the rambunctious hours, stubbing me eyes upon a poetess, a kindred soul who claims my pointy moniker that earned I, only after years of indentured servitude, Briar Thornly, so unnaturally misnamed, yet she of but, few and the tenderest years rights me up with young words her poems sweet treats, sweet eats, departing me delightfully unfairly from my grumpy good graces, look below if you dare risking, a hazardous glancing upon her works, if you like to, grrrrr, smile *Déjà vu Oh to write or not to write. My mind says I don't have a choice. Love has made a home in my heart. I suffer not being able to open the door to my inspiration. I toss a paper ball into the trash. Chapters of my life turn into dust. I bury those words in my mind. Words that I used to think were wrapped up in true meaning. A break could **** my block but my pencil spins out of control. I'll conquer all of those lost attempts. Piano's and violins phase in and out. Wheels of creativity turning in caution. The clock sounds gong,gong,gone. Inspiration died at the start of a vacation. On the page there was the suicide of passion. The ghost of my muse will soon reappear. My emotions need to break free from the shelter of my imagination. I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^* read her poetry till dawn or face my thorny faced muse, and perhaps now you understand, at last comprehend, **a rose by any other name would smell as sweet as a thorn**

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Mar 18, 2014

Mar 18, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC

crave the Briar Thornly, discard the rose petals unless...(read the young poets)

between poems, an old curmudgeon, am me-he, thorny gray stubbled face available for knife sharpening and tongue lashing cranky and cantankerous, bad tempered, ill mannered, me-he, until they slip me a paper aspirin place before me a clean sheet Presto Chango, the ole man displaced, (the boy who remembers to forget,) in his heart~place, installed, though the briar and the thorn never from his visage depart, just briefly, Red Sea parted kiss me surprised, stumbling about in the wee of the rambunctious hours, stubbing me eyes upon a poetess, a kindred soul who claims my pointy moniker that earned I, only after years of indentured servitude, Briar Thornly, so unnaturally misnamed, yet she of but, few and the tenderest years rights me up with young words her poems sweet treats, sweet eats, departing me delightfully unfairly from my grumpy good graces, look below if you dare risking, a hazardous glancing upon her works, if you like to, grrrrr, smile *Déjà vu Oh to write or not to write. My mind says I don't have a choice. Love has made a home in my heart. I suffer not being able to open the door to my inspiration. I toss a paper ball into the trash. Chapters of my life turn into dust. I bury those words in my mind. Words that I used to think were wrapped up in true meaning. A break could **** my block but my pencil spins out of control. I'll conquer all of those lost attempts. Piano's and violins phase in and out. Wheels of creativity turning in caution. The clock sounds gong,gong,gone. Inspiration died at the start of a vacation. On the page there was the suicide of passion. The ghost of my muse will soon reappear. My emotions need to break free from the shelter of my imagination. I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^* read her poetry till dawn or face my thorny faced muse, and perhaps now you understand, at last comprehend, **a rose by any other name would smell as sweet as a thorn**

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In a dream, I walk through the dark corridors of a house, while a party rages on. Something about you always reminds me of red cups and mistakes, about the sunset of adolescence, and our last autumn as children. I sit down next to you. I reach over and kiss your stubbled cheek, and tell you that I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m sorry about, because it was you that broke me, but I apologize anyways. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” I say, I’m sorry that the way I want overflows, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t hide it from you. In a dream, I tell you how I really feel. You are free from what is narrow, I say, and that’s why it’s you. I tell you how the wick of my body burns under your hands made of matches; and how it warms me from the inside. There is no hell more glorious than loving you, and you nod. You know it too. I don’t mention forgiveness, because I don’t think I was ever really mad, just pathetic with longing, pathetic in the way that I would have stuck my two hands into my chest and pulled out my heart for you; pathetic in the way that I would have bled myself dry for your touch. I don’t mention her either, or your talent for keeping other beds warm. Does it really matter? I just look at you, that mouth, so delicately etched, so venomous, those lips, that destroyed me, your exceptional talent for loving and leaving. There’s no hell more glorious than you, no pill more bitter to swallow. You know it too.

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Oct 28, 2017

Oct 28, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC

In a dream, I walk through the dark corridors of a house, while a party rages on. Something about you always reminds me of red cups and mistakes, about the sunset of adolescence, and our last autumn as children. I sit down next to you. I reach over and kiss your stubbled cheek, and tell you that I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m sorry about, because it was you that broke me, but I apologize anyways. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” I say, I’m sorry that the way I want overflows, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t hide it from you. In a dream, I tell you how I really feel. You are free from what is narrow, I say, and that’s why it’s you. I tell you how the wick of my body burns under your hands made of matches; and how it warms me from the inside. There is no hell more glorious than loving you, and you nod. You know it too. I don’t mention forgiveness, because I don’t think I was ever really mad, just pathetic with longing, pathetic in the way that I would have stuck my two hands into my chest and pulled out my heart for you; pathetic in the way that I would have bled myself dry for your touch. I don’t mention her either, or your talent for keeping other beds warm. Does it really matter? I just look at you, that mouth, so delicately etched, so venomous, those lips, that destroyed me, your exceptional talent for loving and leaving. There’s no hell more glorious than you, no pill more bitter to swallow. You know it too.

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Now on Cliff's Harbour sports Activity Delight in using its Pimples to climb You or the Mentor - sight Vicinity Where the Air-Maiden flags her Whitened Thigh Whitened, which your Species usually wait Eager to indulge your Athletics prove That, hoping 'ere ***** Groupies debate Their pawn-teared bets to your Reflex above Then decide - vertical, flex horizon Either which way your stubbled trunks secure Then breathe on Faith; And delight on Season By their Applause earned with your Feelings pure. Still the Mentor was Proud of your Result Though in his mind their Cheers enhance your Salt.

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Mar 16, 2013

Mar 16, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC

xavier-paolo-josh-mandreza

SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - ONE HUNDRED AND NINE - TOM DALEY

Now on Cliff's Harbour sports Activity Delight in using its Pimples to climb You or the Mentor - sight Vicinity Where the Air-Maiden flags her Whitened Thigh Whitened, which your Species usually wait Eager to indulge your Athletics prove That, hoping 'ere ***** Groupies debate Their pawn-teared bets to your Reflex above Then decide - vertical, flex horizon Either which way your stubbled trunks secure Then breathe on Faith; And delight on Season By their Applause earned with your Feelings pure. Still the Mentor was Proud of your Result Though in his mind their Cheers enhance your Salt.

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I softly kiss the back of your neck because I know you like it as much as I like to hear the rustle of the sheets as your mocha eyes catch me in the dark. So close that your shallow breath tickles my day old shave and your nose brushes my stubbled cheek. My soft goodnight tiptoes past your ear. A faint smile and you nudge me with your knee or poke me with your elbow before you turn away, settling back into the arms wrapping your chest. I squeeze a little. You squeeze back.

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Nov 20, 2012

Nov 20, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC

I softly kiss the back of your neck because I know you like it as much as I like to hear the rustle of the sheets as your mocha eyes catch me in the dark. So close that your shallow breath tickles my day old shave and your nose brushes my stubbled cheek. My soft goodnight tiptoes past your ear. A faint smile and you nudge me with your knee or poke me with your elbow before you turn away, settling back into the arms wrapping your chest. I squeeze a little. You squeeze back.

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Such a polished act,“who you mean”,your obscenityand crawling nails,they scratch the sidewalk,we lost all hope for Youand walk with dark eyes;thrown from Your arms.You held the tickets,of children whose dreamsand whose tune…feet with pepsi caps,the smiles of night.“really?”Willingly plunderedin dark brown or kool-aid lime,holding the smokesand shivering puffs,that pass from lipto mouth.We look 6:30 in the morning;we are your Lounge.“yeah I know, it’s voodoo”Our paper dryness andshaking palms,we high and low,ritual blows,who work the Lounge,who adore your obscenity,the comedy, the pages of scribble;our perspectives of absurd value.We adore you andthat sketch, stubbled erasingsin the Lounge.“you mean the voodoo lounge?”“yeah!”2010 Barry Comer

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Feb 8, 2010

Feb 8, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC

Such a polished act,“who you mean”,your obscenityand crawling nails,they scratch the sidewalk,we lost all hope for Youand walk with dark eyes;thrown from Your arms.You held the tickets,of children whose dreamsand whose tune…feet with pepsi caps,the smiles of night.“really?”Willingly plunderedin dark brown or kool-aid lime,holding the smokesand shivering puffs,that pass from lipto mouth.We look 6:30 in the morning;we are your Lounge.“yeah I know, it’s voodoo”Our paper dryness andshaking palms,we high and low,ritual blows,who work the Lounge,who adore your obscenity,the comedy, the pages of scribble;our perspectives of absurd value.We adore you andthat sketch, stubbled erasingsin the Lounge.“you mean the voodoo lounge?”“yeah!”2010 Barry Comer

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I They have a dusty coating You can rub away with a finger’s pad Leaving a small inky-skinned Plum, wild, of dark blue hue Found in hedgerows where The blackthorn grows: The sloe. Pick in September October even, Its colour seemingly so at odds With Autumn’s trends Of brown and orange, red and gold This prunus spinosa (or so it goes): The sloe. II How this photo’s colours spell autumn this dull rain-threatening day we walked almost empty fields so I could crunch the stubbled wheat and you might pocket sloes to halt you said that earnest kiss or passion-promising hug against the gate.

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Sep 16, 2013

Sep 16, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC

Two Autumn Poems

I They have a dusty coating You can rub away with a finger’s pad Leaving a small inky-skinned Plum, wild, of dark blue hue Found in hedgerows where The blackthorn grows: The sloe. Pick in September October even, Its colour seemingly so at odds With Autumn’s trends Of brown and orange, red and gold This prunus spinosa (or so it goes): The sloe. II How this photo’s colours spell autumn this dull rain-threatening day we walked almost empty fields so I could crunch the stubbled wheat and you might pocket sloes to halt you said that earnest kiss or passion-promising hug against the gate.

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Splashes among the splatter of hot water and shampoo. A speck of the tear-free latter, lathered in thin grey flecks, slips through his receding hair. Preceding their retreat into the air, countless droplets of the former had waited - heated, squeezed, and leaking through pipes, bound together, flowing causing groaning - the pipes growing then briefly reigning over the dirt and sweat burrowed in the furrows of his ever-increasing brow, grey water falls from grace, diving down into the drain. It leaves behind a trace, filling up the place with a cloud. now the curtain's flicked open, I hear him step out, a towel drying and his subtle sighing at the humidity, or is it humility toward our conversation? (I can never recall what we ever discussed, just that the door didn't keep us apart) He reached for the handle the door creaked open a crack I looked up at the mirror his crooked smile looking back then I caught sight of the sleight'd man trapped in the glass now wiped clear by his hand A fearful idea passed into my thoughts: The image he's got of himself's slightly altered. My words faltered watching his switched, stubbled chin *His lips' starboard grin won't sit right with him, and he's left unaware of just where his cleft crannies though he's sure his reflection's his face, it's uncanny - he is different to me - the himself that he sees* Asymmetry revealed to me all he has known he has even been is not the man his son has seen until - I averted my eyes, as he walked to his bedroom heard the noise of TV as he watched and he changed behind closed doors ...later... More doors close distance grows between us, though our intravenous love keeps us reaching ever outward toward each other teaching our open arms to also grow create a closeness while letting go It is an indulgent weakness, our shared blood is pumped through slumped shrugging shoulders the years make us older / the tears keep us young as flexed muscles holding us together bulge in a great show of strength

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Sep 4, 2013

Sep 4, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC

Splashes among the splatter of hot water and shampoo. A speck of the tear-free latter, lathered in thin grey flecks, slips through his receding hair. Preceding their retreat into the air, countless droplets of the former had waited - heated, squeezed, and leaking through pipes, bound together, flowing causing groaning - the pipes growing then briefly reigning over the dirt and sweat burrowed in the furrows of his ever-increasing brow, grey water falls from grace, diving down into the drain. It leaves behind a trace, filling up the place with a cloud. now the curtain's flicked open, I hear him step out, a towel drying and his subtle sighing at the humidity, or is it humility toward our conversation? (I can never recall what we ever discussed, just that the door didn't keep us apart) He reached for the handle the door creaked open a crack I looked up at the mirror his crooked smile looking back then I caught sight of the sleight'd man trapped in the glass now wiped clear by his hand A fearful idea passed into my thoughts: The image he's got of himself's slightly altered. My words faltered watching his switched, stubbled chin *His lips' starboard grin won't sit right with him, and he's left unaware of just where his cleft crannies though he's sure his reflection's his face, it's uncanny - he is different to me - the himself that he sees* Asymmetry revealed to me all he has known he has even been is not the man his son has seen until - I averted my eyes, as he walked to his bedroom heard the noise of TV as he watched and he changed behind closed doors ...later... More doors close distance grows between us, though our intravenous love keeps us reaching ever outward toward each other teaching our open arms to also grow create a closeness while letting go It is an indulgent weakness, our shared blood is pumped through slumped shrugging shoulders the years make us older / the tears keep us young as flexed muscles holding us together bulge in a great show of strength

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the caffeine and preservatives served me ill and now the air is clear enough to hear an echo of those angina beats the rhythm of compressed time where mild maturity becomes entwined in curious calamity, cut down, boxed up, for all to see the choke hold slip the sterling buckle its teeth around your stubbled throat and nylon stained constricted waste the filthy lack of alibi

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Apr 7, 2015

Apr 7, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC

my filthy lack of alibi

the caffeine and preservatives served me ill and now the air is clear enough to hear an echo of those angina beats the rhythm of compressed time where mild maturity becomes entwined in curious calamity, cut down, boxed up, for all to see the choke hold slip the sterling buckle its teeth around your stubbled throat and nylon stained constricted waste the filthy lack of alibi

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this morning on wednesday april seventeenth two thousand thirteen a man was found dead in the parking lot of a walmart on a cold drizzly spring day wearing an old carhartt splotched by cloudy ink stains a white tee and jeans so faded and worn that there were quarter sized holes dotting the fabric and an old red and white-gone-gray cap that framed his cold stubbled scarred scabbed face in his pockets the following were found: a wallet containing seventeen dollars and sixty three cents a bottle of forty antidepressants minus around a hand full the hopes and dreams of a seven year old boy and a broken pocket watch

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Oct 6, 2013

Oct 6, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC

the seventeenth

this morning on wednesday april seventeenth two thousand thirteen a man was found dead in the parking lot of a walmart on a cold drizzly spring day wearing an old carhartt splotched by cloudy ink stains a white tee and jeans so faded and worn that there were quarter sized holes dotting the fabric and an old red and white-gone-gray cap that framed his cold stubbled scarred scabbed face in his pockets the following were found: a wallet containing seventeen dollars and sixty three cents a bottle of forty antidepressants minus around a hand full the hopes and dreams of a seven year old boy and a broken pocket watch

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The earthquake shook Their eyes, in a teacup The room floor raised up- What were they listening for? The dead hollows filled In the stubbled field The corpses to yield- What were they listening for? A low groan, a hidden moan The moon on loan Evil sown, to vengeance grown- What were they listening for? The footfalls came Their souls to maim And life, reclaim- Oh horror, sustained: Comes now the sound they were listening for..

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Oct 22, 2010

Oct 22, 2010 at 11:41 AM UTC

patti-masterman-heterodynemind

What were they listening for?

The earthquake shook Their eyes, in a teacup The room floor raised up- What were they listening for? The dead hollows filled In the stubbled field The corpses to yield- What were they listening for? A low groan, a hidden moan The moon on loan Evil sown, to vengeance grown- What were they listening for? The footfalls came Their souls to maim And life, reclaim- Oh horror, sustained: Comes now the sound they were listening for..

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Desynchronized glances, evaporate into long, ravenous gazes. Each of us is a mirrored pool, a reflecting pond, that the other could swan-dive, into, facefirst, and drown in. We drip hotly and melt, for each other, like simmering rivers of molten candle wax. I twist around you like a curl, of oiled hemp. Your fingers tense, grip, and peel back the skin, of cotton thigh highs as your face elongates, and your mouth, moves... languorous tongue, trailblazing downwards from the mons veneris, to worship, devoutly, at my sacred shrine, below. The slippery wetness, of exposed thigh slicks, and grazes, your stubbled cheeks tenderly perfuming the tensed column, of your working throat, with my feminine scent. We interlock, tongue and groove. Your tongue tip flicks the nub, back and forth, like an ignition switch, as the engine hums, to life. You stoke my fires, with every lingual stroke. You blow my torch, into a fervid flame that spreads heat throughout the inner chamber, and you warm your face in its baking, radiant glow. I bite down, delirious with ecstasy, into the skin, of my own tensing arms; wrists bound, in python restraints, overhead: resisting the force, of the virulent scream forcibly spreading, throughout pink lungs. Yes...oh, God, yes. I churn, from the hips, down raining, into your expectant face, mouth pealed, helplessly, for the scream... and the sunlight breaks overhead as I smile brightly, and collapse, around you. ...Oh...puddin'...have mercy, on me. Now... we separate, and interchange places, smoothly. Your hands, dig, into the voluminous depths of loosely bound, twin comet tails. You wrap their trailing, cherry cola ends, around tight, clenched knuckle fists, as my lips, purr, against ever-expanding skin. Don't you dare...let go, of these handlebars, baby, as I rev up, hard, hit a wet patch, and SLIDE. ....Hold on tight, to me, and RIDE.

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Apr 22, 2025

Apr 22, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC

I'm Your Harley, Baby (Adult)

Desynchronized glances, evaporate into long, ravenous gazes. Each of us is a mirrored pool, a reflecting pond, that the other could swan-dive, into, facefirst, and drown in. We drip hotly and melt, for each other, like simmering rivers of molten candle wax. I twist around you like a curl, of oiled hemp. Your fingers tense, grip, and peel back the skin, of cotton thigh highs as your face elongates, and your mouth, moves... languorous tongue, trailblazing downwards from the mons veneris, to worship, devoutly, at my sacred shrine, below. The slippery wetness, of exposed thigh slicks, and grazes, your stubbled cheeks tenderly perfuming the tensed column, of your working throat, with my feminine scent. We interlock, tongue and groove. Your tongue tip flicks the nub, back and forth, like an ignition switch, as the engine hums, to life. You stoke my fires, with every lingual stroke. You blow my torch, into a fervid flame that spreads heat throughout the inner chamber, and you warm your face in its baking, radiant glow. I bite down, delirious with ecstasy, into the skin, of my own tensing arms; wrists bound, in python restraints, overhead: resisting the force, of the virulent scream forcibly spreading, throughout pink lungs. Yes...oh, God, yes. I churn, from the hips, down raining, into your expectant face, mouth pealed, helplessly, for the scream... and the sunlight breaks overhead as I smile brightly, and collapse, around you. ...Oh...puddin'...have mercy, on me. Now... we separate, and interchange places, smoothly. Your hands, dig, into the voluminous depths of loosely bound, twin comet tails. You wrap their trailing, cherry cola ends, around tight, clenched knuckle fists, as my lips, purr, against ever-expanding skin. Don't you dare...let go, of these handlebars, baby, as I rev up, hard, hit a wet patch, and SLIDE. ....Hold on tight, to me, and RIDE.

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